Wednesday, July 9, 2014

What the Postcards Don't Show

Not music, not dance, not education. The glasses I
wore in Ghana, Italy and Austria don’t fit me now. Not art, not history. That’s
what I would wear in Florence, Venice, Rome. But here in Riomaggiore, the
southernmost of the Cinqueterre towns, it’s a new lens that will serve me.

First and foremost, re-awakening this
exercise-dormant body, five weeks since I hurt my leg and have been away from
walking, biking, swimming. Yesterday, walked down from the dream villa in the
Santa Margherita hills into town, dipped into the water and then dipped out
when it began raining, walked back up the hills and lo and behold, my leg held
up. Then today, up 702 Inca-trail style steps to the peak between Riomaggiore
and Manarola and another 656 down (my numbers-nerd habit of counting) and
feeling some strength and vigor in the old body. Hooray for that!

Second is the mix of natural beauty and exquisite
architecture blended into the surroundings. The brain always searches for
familiar experiences and ascending the hills called up a mixture of Granada (Spain),
Olleytantambo (Peru) and Santorini (Greece) . The latter especially close,
these houses built into the cliffs overlooking the blue sea, only here all
colored in pastels, in Greece, all white.

At dinner in Verona one night, we talked about the
astounding fact that hardly anyone could think of an ugly Italian town. And
then began to admire the unique culture and beauty of each— and there are so
many! As mentioned, Florence, Venice, Rome, but then also Verona and in
different ways, Bologna, Milan, Genoa, Naples and then the smaller towns like
Assisi and the hill towns in Tuscany and famous towns like Vinci that spawned
Leonardo and Arrezo that was the home of Guido (who invented solfege). And once
you start walking down history to see what Italy produced, from Dante to Sophia
Loren, from the Renaissance to Ferrari’s, from Opera to the Mafia and
Machiavelli— not to mention pizza!—well, it’s pretty extraordinary.

But tucked away on the West Coast and not easily
accessible until tourist demand tunneled train tracks to these five towns, these
modest fishing villages are famous for anchovies, but no great Renaissance
painters, Opera composers or immigrants like Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin. And
yet, they ooze with charm and astound with natural beauty. The possibilities for postcards are beyond what
stores can carry.

But there’s one thing the postcards don’t show that
shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but did. And threw a canker into all of the
splendor.

Tourists.

Hundreds of them swarming the streets, crowding the
trains, overflowing from the restaurants. It’s hard to feel the native charm
when everyone looks like you and talks like you and you feel you could be shopping
in Sausalito or Carmel. So far, no one seems especially obnoxious or ugly
Americanish. But still, there are so many of them! Everywhere! All the time!
Naturally, I have no right to complain. I’m one of them!! But still people,
don’t you want to go see David in Florence?

There are 7 billion people on this planet and lots
of them have money for travel and computers to arrange hotels and word spreads
fast. Of course, it changes everything, not always for the bad. Usually locals
are thrilled with the expanding economy. But only up to a point— when an
authentic way of life becomes “for show,” when the world is one continuous
Disneyland, culture suffers. I’m guilty of using the words “quaint and
charming,” but for the people living the life in a place, nothing is quaint or
charming. It’s just life in all its meanness and splendor, all its terrors and
joys. A choppy sea means no tourist boat for the visitor, but no fish for the
resident.

Here it’s useful to distinguish between traveler
and tourist. One comes to a place still living life on its own terms and
partakes as an appreciative guest grateful for a new way of seeing the world.
Such was the travel in Ghana, where we didn’t see a single tourist our whole
time there. The other rolls off the cruise ship with camera snapping and money
ready for the souvenir shops and then back to business as usual. And then a
third category, the subject of this blog— one bringing a gift to the
culture that perhaps may (or may not) be needed or welcomed. In my case, an
education practice that nurtures children and cultivates a humanistic future. And
then all the shades of grey in-between.

So while I aim for traveler consciousness, it will
be hard to disentangle from the tourist throngs. Except by walking up high in
the hills. And that’s my plan tomorrow.

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About Me

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.” (E.B. White).
Early on in my adult life, I was convinced that the world is a mess that needs fixing. But I also sensed that life is short, that miracles and beauty abound and that we would do well to pay attention to them. In a stroke of good fortune, I stumbled on a life that allowed both to happen at once. Teaching music at The San Francisco School with children between three and 14 years old guaranteed a fair share of miracles and beauty. The sense that happy children playing, imagining, thinking and creating might help a bit with that improving-the-world side of things made it easy to plan my day.
Alongside my 43 years at The San Francisco School is a parallel life of traveling and teaching the Orff approach to music education—some 45 countries to date banging on xylophones and slapping our bodies. This blog now in its eighth year sharing these experiences. Settle back in your armchair and enjoy!